Thy snortings rise as the roar of a river’s swell; spur thou the rim of the wheel of song.

At thy stirring, three voices arise in strife, as thou mountest the back of the sheep.

Upon the fleece, with stones they drive thee, O tawny one, dear to all, who cleanseth himself, dripping with sweetness.

Cleanse thyself in the stream, through the sieve, thou soul-stirring poet, to rest within the womb of chant.

Cleanse thyself, O most gladdening drop, anointed with kine as with balms, that Indra may drink thee down.